Where the Thunder Goes
by samurai frasier crane
Summary: a scene from near the end of Diane's "flesh binge", because who can resist the temptation to write about drunk, batshit crazy Diane! Not me!


_Note: I watched "Fear is My Co-Pilot" after writing this and realized I made a canonical error! Diane apparently _met_ Jack in Pamplona, and I've got her there with him closer to the end of her "flesh binge" (a phrase that I need to work into everyday conversation more often). But I went through all the effort of looking up Spanish words on google so DAMNIT, I'm not changing it! Also, here's the quote where I snagged the title from._

"_That's how you'll end up, Mr. Bell, if you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky…and believe me, it's better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear." – Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's_

The bar in Pamplona was crowded and dark, smelled of smoke. Music sounded from somewhere and it seemed to her that the sounds were emerging from her own body; she could feel the steady pulse of the song from her toes to her fingertips, like an electric current. Crammed into tables and along the bar were dozens of tourists and locals, conversing in every language imaginable, the noise building to a wordless roar beneath the twang of a guitar. _Waves at the beach_, she thought. _The ocean. A plane taking off._ Jack tugged her hand, guiding her to a table, and she yielded immediately to his touch.

"Well, my dear." He pulled out a chair for her and she sat. "What'll it be?"

"Oh… How about a white wine?"

"Tequila, did you say? You can sure pick 'em. I'll be back."

Before she could object he vanished behind a table of young Spaniards, no older than twenty or twenty-one, immersed in an animated conversation about something or other. She shrugged to herself and directed her focus towards them as they threw back shots of whiskey. One of the boys rose in his seat, his eyes wild and crinkled at the corners as if in amusement. Was he making a toast? He was shouting something at least, but she didn't speak Spanish. She didn't know what.

Jack returned, balancing a tray. He lowered it to the table and beamed at her.

"Jack!" she said. "Why on earth—"

"They're cheaper by the dozen. And I thought it'd save us some trouble." He passed her a shot and clinked it against his own. "Cheers!"

She stiffened momentarily. "Uh, yes," she said. "Cheers." She downed the shot, grimacing from the taste. Jack apparently noticed, because he reached across the table and stuck a wedge of lime in her mouth.

"That's what those are for."

"Oh."

"Try again, this time with the salt." He demonstrated, pouring a line of salt on the back of his hand. He licked it, took the shot, then the lime. "Your turn."

"Okay."

It had been nearly a month since Jack had found her – and he really had _found_ her, sitting under the Pont Mirabeau in Paris with a stale baguette and a bottle of cheap wine. The baguette was for pigeons, the wine for her, and had the bottle not been half empty she probably would have screamed when he snuck up from behind and clapped her on the shoulder. He spoke in a booming, almost theatrical voice.

"_Qu'est-ce que tu fais, ma belle?_"

In her stupor it took her a moment to translate. "I… Uh, _rien_." She pointed at the flock of pigeons. "_Les oieseaux mangent_."

"_Et tu bois_." He smiled. "Are you American or English?"

"American." She watched him dumbly, feeling as if her head was vibrating. He sat at her side.

"That was my guess. Your accent is awful. Has anyone ever told you that?" She opened her mouth to respond but he continued speaking over her. "Don't answer. I have a better question. Are you alone?"

She nodded.

"Impossible," he scoffed. "What's a beauty like you doing alone under a bridge at night? You could be killed! Maybe that's why. Is that why?"

"What?"

"Do you like to do dangerous things?"

_No_, she thought. Her mouth apparently had other ideas. "Yes," she told him.

"Good." He took her hands, pulling her to her feet, and stared into her eyes so forcefully it almost scared her. "I think I've been looking for you."

And so, from that moment on, she had followed him everywhere. Very quickly she came to love him, not so much with a woman's love but rather how she had loved as a child – grateful to be found and not lost, grateful that someone was telling her what to do. Lately she'd had some trouble figuring this out for herself. Then, it seemed, she started getting ideas of her own – she had no idea where they came from – and this only delighted him more. On their last night in Paris, when she'd gotten drunk and climbed onto their table, the pride that shone in his eyes struck her as almost paternal.

Jack was not possessive; this quality, he explained, came from owning nothing and everything at the same time. "That's my little Zen koan," he'd said. She liked it and thought she would give it a shot for a while, unable to think of many viable alternatives. The whole thing was strange – like living as an alternate self in an alternate reality – and she often remembered what her mother used to say, that Americans always act differently in Europe. Jack possessed everything, including her, and by becoming his mistress she became mistress to the world. The unease, guilt, and fear she had felt that night under the bridge did not go away, but became muddled with every other possible emotion and sensation so that soon she found herself thinking less. It was nice. She had been thinking for most of her life and now it only happened every few days, usually when the first rays of sunlight stirred her from sleep and she found herself in a strange room with a stranger. In these moments she felt unsettled, but Jack had a solution for this too: lunch.

She had never realized, fully, how tiresome it was to think all the time. Or how nice lunch could be.

The musician, wherever he was, began a waltz. Jack swallowed a third tequila shot and extended a hand across the table. "Whaddayou say?"

"Huh?" She traced the rim of the empty glass with her finger. "Oh, not now. I don't really feel like it."

"What's the matter, Chambers? You seem outta sorts. Not the right attitude for a matador. I think you need another." He tapped one of the shot glasses with his finger; she drank it.

"But I'm not a matador."

"Well, whose fault is that?"

She smiled.

"Seriously," he said, "what're you so quiet for? This is San Fermin! What is it, Hemingway-inspired despair?"

"I'm fine." She threw back a fourth shot and again he beamed. "Let's dance."

As he pulled her onto the floor she continued thinking of Hemingway. He and his friends – the Lost Generation – had gone to the same festival, walked the same streets. Over fifteen years ago she'd stretched out on the shore of Cape Cod while her mother was off somewhere playing bridge, and read _The Sun Also Rises_ in one afternoon Safe and sound way over on the left side of the Atlantic. She didn't care much for Hemingway but liked the idea of Europe as a place that had eaten him up, a kind of monstrous dreamscape masked in sunshine and various amusements. And then there were those halting final lines, which had startled her and which she liked more than anything preceding them. _"Oh, Jake. We could have had such a damned good time together." "Yes. Isn't it pretty to think so?"_

She felt like shit. Was she lost too? No, she remembered, she had been found – she was nestled in the arms of the man who had found her at this very moment! How did the Lost Generation lose themselves? A war. She didn't think they felt like shit in the same way she did; she had just wandered off. And what reason did she have to feel sad, anyway? She had ceded the privilege of sadness when she had ceded herself. Now, like Jack, she had nothing. She had nothing to feel sad about.

A hand squeezed her shoulder, one of the boys from the neighboring table. Jack released her and a new pair of arms encircled her waist. The boy was taller, with stubble on his chin and blank, dark eyes. They met hers and she imagined they were black holes into which she might vanish, but then they fluttered shut and he pulled her closer. When they opened again she found her hand on his neck, drawing his face closer, and then she was kissing him.

What? Who pulled that lever? The four tequila shots? She seemed to hover above herself, watching her body – that incomprehensible piece of machinery – do whatever it seemed to want. Lately she had begun to feel that it wasn't really her: the thing that moved and breathed and made her thoughts come out as sounds. She really had nothing to do with it, aside from it being attached to her. And what a pity! She wanted to exist without one, without a body.

She kept her eyes open while the boy kissed her. His friends were carrying on a conversation with Jack in broken Spanish, and she saw him offer them the remaining tequila shots. When the song ended she broke apart from the boy, leading him by the wrist back to the table. She approached Jack and stared up at him wordlessly. What was she waiting for? For him to tell her what to do next. He only smiled.

"Hullo. Looks like we've made friends!"

"We always do."

"Well, we're friendly people." He clapped one of the Spaniards on the shoulder. "Fernando here was telling me he knows a great place for watching the fireworks. At least, I think that's what he said. Whaddaya say? Should we split?"

"If you want."

He watched her crookedly. "The hell is wrong with you? Are you sad?"

"What? No." She took a step towards the door and just managed to keep herself from stumbling. The Spaniard hooked his arm around her waist. "I'm just drunk. Let's go."

"Don't mind her," Jack said to the Spaniards, ushering everyone along."_Mia reina es una_ 'sad drunk' _esta noche_." He paused. "_Como se dice_ 'sad drunk' _en espanol_?"

"Sad drunk?" Fernando repeated. They exited the bar, into the warm night.

"Drunk." He mimed drinking. "Sad. _Triste_. Sad drunk."

"Shut up, Jack," Diane snapped.

"Ah, _es borracha triste_."

"_Mia borracha triste_," Jack said affectionately. Since her waist had already been claimed, Jack wrapped his arm around her shoulder; it created a vague smothering effect, being squeezed between the two of them, but also guaranteed that she'd keep walking in a straight line. Fernando led the way. They wove between crowds of people, blurred and almost surreal, and again she felt the sensation of leaving her body. Her Spaniard was murmuring something incomprehensible in her ear; it sounded like bees buzzing and she wished he'd shut up. Only Jack's voice kept her marginally tethered to earth, heavy in its boisterousness. He carried on with the boys. He told her their names, which she forgot immediately. Her Spaniard's hand had snaked beneath her blouse and she felt his warm palm against her back.

They turned onto a side street. Fernando gestured to a building, indicating that it was his apartment, and they ascended the dark stairwell. He unlocked the door to his unit with an old-fashioned brass key but did not invite them inside, merely stepping in to grab a bottle of red wine and then closing the door behind him. Their motley crew ascended another flight of stairs, which opened up to the roof.

"Oh," she murmured. The sounds of the festival were less overpowering from such height and the sky stretched out like a black canvas. Few stars were visible, but the moon was full and bright.

"Having fun yet?" Jack asked. He released her and sank happily to the ground, sitting cross-legged and tilting his head skyward. "Where are these damn fireworks?"

"Soon," one of the boys promised. They all sat. This quelled her dizziness somewhat, leaving her free to focus on other things, and she began to feel annoyed with her Spaniard, who was still holding her tightly. Even when she looked away, she could feel his stare. She wished he would stop – because suddenly she felt that she didn't want anyone to touch her, maybe never again.

When she stiffened it only seemed to encourage him further; at least, his hands became more resolute. Jack had resumed his chatter and didn't notice. A few moments passed like this – her grimacing while the Spaniard tested his luck – but when her hand flew forward and smacked him across the face, she couldn't have said who did it, who had _pulled the lever._ The voice that shouted, "Oh, for Chrissakes, will you give it a rest?" was unmistakably her own, but it still sounded like it was coming from somewhere else.

Her Spaniard looked affronted at this development, but not angry - rather, sheepish and flushed. His friends shrieked with laughter, which Jack joined. "Oh, you rogue!" He shook the boy back and forth by the shoulder. "Don't take it so hard, kiddo, it's not you. She just happens to be _desperately_ in love with some baseball star. She told me last night. Damned bad luck, huh?"

She staggered to her feet. "Jack, _shut up._" But he was not paying attention. He was attempting to restate himself in Spanish, without much success. "_El beisbol_," he said. He mimed swinging a bat. "Pow! _Si, ella lo ama_."

"Jack!" she snapped again. He looked at her, grinning dazedly.

"_Donde esta_?" asked Fernando.

"Oh, he's dead. _Muerte_."

She had started stomping towards the door but wheeled around at this, almost losing her balance. "I—no he's not!"

"Well, excuse me, but I didn't understand the story the way you told it so I thought I'd make it more interesting." Jack turned back to the boys, his eyes wide. "He set himself on fire – out of _yearning_ for _nuestra belleza_ over here. Went up in smoke like a Tibetan monk! _Es verdad_!"

"_No es verdad_! Oh Jack, why do you keep getting me drunk? I'm going home." She sank back to the ground. Jack watched her for a moment, then crawled over on his hands and knees.

"Going home, huh? Well, you're not doing a very good job of it. Where's home anyway?"

In her odd state of mind she found this almost amusing – it was funny, wasn't it, how she always managed to do the exact opposite of what she wanted? She grabbed him by the collar. "Jack Dalton, you are such a _poo._" Then she wrenched him closer and kissed his cheek, giggling to herself. "Oh, I hate you. No, I hate me. I hate us both. What will you do if I try to throw myself off this roof right now?"

"You'd have to stand up without help first."

"What if I try to _roll_ off?"

"Then I'll roll you back."

"Oh, you ass!" She kissed him again. "I hate you. He's not a Tibetan monk. Why didn't you listen to my story?"

"I did, darling, I just thought it might be better if we made him a Tibetan monk."

"Well, maybe it would be." She flopped onto her back. "It can't be worse than it already is."

"Ah, my sad little drunk." He twined a tendril of her hair around his finger. "If he's not in Tibet and he's not dead, where is he?"

"I told you, Boston."

"Boston…" He bit his lip in thought. "Say, I've been dying to take my bird on a transatlantic voyage – haven't done it yet. What do you think?"

"What?" It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about. "Oh, yes darling, I'll be Amelia and you be Fred."

"Not a _doomed_ voyage. I have a life wish, remember?"

"Jack, you didn't listen to my story! No one listens to my stories!"

"Well, sorry, but it was hard enough to keep track of things when it was just the professor and the psychiatrist."

"_Here on Gilligan's Isle!_" she crooned. "Oh, what a joke. I'm such a joke. Where did I even go? I was here a moment ago."

"You're still here."

"Promise?" She reached up and grabbed his collar again.

"Yes."

"Y'know what he thought?" she said. "He thought I was _crazy_."

"There are worse things to be."

"I am crazy. Do you know what _I_ thought? I thought he was going to come here."

"To the roof? Well, we'd have to give him the address."

"No," she said. "Not the roof. If he comes to the roof I'll push him off. I mean I thought he was going to come to my _wedding._"

"Well, that's… Did you invite him?"

"No!" she repeated, more sharply. "He was supposed to come up with it himself, but he's too damn stupid! How'd I get this crazy? Was I always crazy? Do you want to know something else? I don't think he feels _anything._ Nothing above the belt, at least." She scowled. "I hate him."

"I thought you loved him."

"I know, isn't it awful? That's _why_ I hate him. Between him and me I don't know who to hate more." She paused. "I mean, between he and I. Him and me? Which one is it? It has to do with whether the pronouns are nominative or objective. Ssssomething with the verbs," she slurred, letting her eyes droop shut. Jack laughed.

"Can I ask you something, Chambers?"

"Sure, Dalton, if you're not too particular about the answer."

"Why do you wait around for other people to give you what you want instead of trying to take it yourself?"

"Why don't you go to hell!" she cried, giggling again. "Anyway, you couldn't _posssssssibly_ understand. You don't know him."

"This isn't about him, though, this is about you."

"But I'm not even here."

"Yes, you are."

"Oh, look, Jack!" She waved an arm blindly at the sky. "Fireworks!"

He smiled. "Hey, that's really something, isn't it?"

"Mmhmm."

He called to the Spaniards, still seated at the edge of the roof and drinking their wine. "_Es bueno!" _Fernando raised his glass in acknowledgment.

Diane tugged on Jack's sleeve, drawing his attention back to her. "Do you know who I've been thinking about lately?"

"Yes…?"

"No, I mean _besides_ him. I'm sick to death of thinking about him. That's why I want to roll off the roof."

"Huh, you could try thinking about Ramon."

"Who the hell is Ramon?"

Jack snorted. "The twenty year old kid you smacked in the face ten minutes ago."

"Oh, him. No, I don't think that'll work."

For a moment they watched the fireworks in silence.

"Who have you been thinking about?" Jack said.

"God."

"God? Oh no, not God. Anyone but _him_, Diane."

"Do you think I'm going to go to hell?"

"I'd prefer to think that you have the sense not to believe in something so barbaric."

"I think I'm going to hell," she said. "And do you know what the worst part is? I'm _glad_. Because then we'll get to torture each other forever. He's definitely going to hell."

"Well, I for one like him all the better for it."

"Yes. I do too, I think." She tried to pull herself to a seated position, almost slipping before Jack caught her arm. "Jack," she wailed, pressing a palm to her face. "Why do I love that stupid ape so much? God, do you know who I sound like? I sound like _Carla_."

"Who the hell is Carla?"

"Someone I _wish_ I'd smacked in the face ten minutes ago instead of that poor boy! Oh, look at him, he's such a dear. I should be his mother."

"No, I don't think you should."

"Probably not." She sighed. "Jack, I think I should go home."

"I think you should too," he said. "But please tell me this is because of your baseball player and not because you've decided that God has taken up residence in the Boston area?"

"I'm thinking of joining a convent," she murmured.

"No."

"What?"

"I said no. First of all, you're drunk, and second of all, I'm not gonna let you become a nun, Diane! You think that'll solve anything?"

"Not to become a nun, just…" Her head was still spinning but she felt strangely sober as she spoke – and sadder than she had been in weeks, as if some kind of floodgate had spontaneously opened. Even if she was drunk at the moment, she'd been thinking about the convent idea for a while and increasingly she'd felt like it was something she _needed_ to follow through on – if not for the sake of religion, which she sometimes had trouble taking seriously, at least to clear her head. And here, again, was proof of her insanity – because she'd finally built up the strength to attempt a return to normal life that wouldn't end with her crawling back to Sam, and immediately upon voicing it aloud she'd started to _cry._

Jack draped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. "Look here, I won't lie to you. I think you should go find your baseball player."

"But Jack, he couldn't possibly love me."

"What, because he didn't fly across an ocean to break up your _wedding?_ Diane, did it ever occur to you that maybe he thought _you_ couldn't possibly love _him?_"

"I… oh god…" She shook her head. "No, he must know. He probably thinks I'm such a fool—oh, I can just see him making jokes about it to all our stupid friends."

"Chambers, I've seen a lot of the world, and there's something I've learned from it."

"What?"

"Don't decide anything about anything until you've seen it with your own eyes, okay?"

And suddenly she understood why the floodgate had opened up – because yet again, she was lying to herself. She still thought the convent idea was worth trying… but of course, _of course_, it was still about him. It probably always would be, at least until she had some kind of definitive proof that it shouldn't or couldn't; and to know that, she needed to see him at least one more time. What a sap she was! And yet, she couldn't help feeling a rush of excitement. The convent might not have to be an end, but merely the next rung in a seemingly endless ladder. Just as she'd needed Europe to build the strength to return to Boston and her own head, the convent might give her the courage to go home.

"Maybe… Maybe you're right."

"So you'll skip the convent?"

"No," she said. "I need to do that first."

"Christ, what're you so hung up on _nuns_ for?"

"I just… I can't right now, Jack, I'm a mess. This isn't really me. I don't know where I went."

"I do." His fingers trailed along her arm. "You're right here. This is you. Stop saying it's not."

"But Jack, it isn't! You don't… you don't know me at all."

"I know you better than you think. I swear. This is you."

"What?" she said bitterly. "My _body?_"

"That's all anyone is."

"Jack, how can you—"

"What do you think you are, your mind? A bunch of pink snakes coiled together? Naw. That's not anything. They'll shrivel up one day."

"Well, so will everything else!"

"Doesn't matter with everything else." He shook her back and forth. "Don't you hear a soul rattling around inside there? _That's_ what you are. And without this thing," he patted her arm, "it'd go bulleting off into space. What good are your snakes then?"

"Well…" She hung her head, thinking this over. "Maybe I need all three."

"A trinity! Let the nuns sink their teeth into that!"

"So you'll… you'll let me go?"

"No way in hell will I let you go."

"I'm going anyway."

"That's better. That's the spirit."

She leaned against him, watching as a flash of yellow and red streaked across the sky.

"Oh, Jack," she said. "Look at that one."


End file.
